


Beauty and the Beast-er, I mean, the Duck Prince

by AlanAlexHolc



Category: Miracle Workers (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Comedy, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:55:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27047575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlanAlexHolc/pseuds/AlanAlexHolc
Summary: What if Al's father hadn't shown up in time to take the blame for whoever "pushed the cart at the prince"? What if it was Al who was pinned with the crime and had to face the consequences for something she hadn't done? Yet, what if she were sent to the castle instead of being beheaded? What if she was forced to stay in the confines of King Cragnoor's palace, to spend the rest of her days as a prisoner? What if the son of said king befriended Al, and in return, learned from her ways, accustoming to following his own heart and dreams rather than the traditions demanded of him to follow by his long ancestry of murderous tyrants? What if these two beings went from peasant and prince to friends, and later, maybe lovers? And what if all of these "what ifs" became reality?
Relationships: Chauncley/Al, Chauncley/Alexandria, Prince Chauncley/Alexandria Shitshoveller
Kudos: 4





	Beauty and the Beast-er, I mean, the Duck Prince

"Where’ve you been? You missed the post-lunch rush.” Al’s father, Ed, asked as he stood to his feet, absentmindedly wiping away the bread crumbs sprinkled from his previous meal off his shirt.  
“Sorry about that.” Al apologized as she trotted her way to him.   
Although if she was being honest, she wasn’t that sorry about her tardiness. The young woman would’ve given anything to never pick up her shovel again and scoop up another load of dung. She consciously wished her feet would turn to stone, preventing her from continuing today’s tedious tasks with her new employer, or at least slow her down from reaching the stinking cart. For as much as she knew that shoveling shit would be just as much a part of her life as breathing was, she was hellbent on avoiding the activity as much as possible.   
“You know this business isn't something you can play at.” Her father continued. “I mean, it requires dedication, hard work and- W-W-W-What the heck is that?”  
As he was talking, Al had pulled out her own shovel. It was the same one her father had given to her just last night, her name and tombstone neatly inscribed on the slab of sanded wood, but it had changed. During her lunch break, Al had tied a wooden pole to the short handle with a length of leather, making it taller in height and therefore, easier to use.   
“Oh! I just made a slight design modification.” She replied innocently.   
Ed knitted his black and white peppered eyebrows in confusion. “You made a what-what a what-what?”  
“I made the handle longer.” Al said matter of factually.   
“Why?” He asked, flabbergasted.   
“So I don't have to, you know, stoop over,” Al explained.  
It was quite simple, in her mind. To her, it was nothing but painful to hunch down and bend her back over and over again to scoop up shit when she knew there was an easier way. She could only imagine how her father’s knees and spine felt after years of doing so. She winced at the thought. Besides, she had also done it for him. To improve his line of work by improving his health.   
“Aw, sweetie,” the older man retorted. “you're supposed to stoop over. I showed you. That's how we do it.”  
“Maybe there's a better way?” Al voiced. It was more of a statement than a question.   
“Okay, I get it.” said Ed.   
For a moment, a very brief, near second of a moment, Al thought that maybe he had seen it. That her father had finally seen the potential of her ideas. That maybe he was more open minded than she thought him to be and that he would give her inventions a chance. If that was the case, maybe working with him wouldn’t be so bad.   
“You're confused. I've been throwing a lot at you today, but don't worry, you have the rest of your life to master this. But in the meantime, let me just fix this for you.” Ed firmly grasped the shovel from his daughter’s hand and in a flash, he snapped the pole in two against his knee with a resonating crack.   
Al’s jaw dropped open into a big “o” as her father discarded the splintered staff on the dirt pathway. Not only did Ed just completely turn down her way of doing her job, but he single handedly destroyed it before her eyes.   
“Alright, all set.” Ed remarked, satisfied with his actions, motioning to hand back the once again short shovel to Al, who still gazed upon him with disbelief. “Now, I want you to re-shovel what you shoveled, but do it the right way.”  
“What?!” Al asked, finding her voice.   
“Re-shovel what you shoveled.” Ed repeated, still reaching the shovel out to her.   
“No, I'm not gonna re-shovel what I shoveled.” Al pronounced defiantly, not taking the tool from her father.   
“Why not?” The shitshoveller questioned unbelievably, as if blind to the oh-so obvious reason why his new apprentice was so upset. As if he hadn’t just demolished her creation into a pile of wood chips, going about it like he was doing her a favor when it was actually the other way around.   
“Because it's already shoveled.” Al fiercely replied.   
“I'm trying to teach you how to shovel.” Ed returned just as heatedly.   
“I don't want to shovel!” Al snapped, angry warmth burning under her skin. “Have you ever considered that maybe there's a chance that I don't want to do this stupid job? No! Because you-you don't care about what I'm going through. You don't care about me at all.”  
“Uh, uh, okay, but…” Ed blinked in surprise at her outburst, taking an unintentional step back. He would’ve focused on her words with much more attention if there wasn’t something slightly more important happening behind her.   
“What?!” The young woman barked out, her ears and cheeks flushed.   
Ed couldn't help taking a deep breath before saying, “You turned your back on the cart.”  
Al, her anger seemingly forgotten, whirled around and saw for herself that the large wooden cart of collected shit was gradually rolling away and down the street.   
“Stop that cart!” She cried as she ran after it.  
Given that she was dressed in such a long gown and wasn’t the quickest runner in Lower Murkford, she was quite fast. Yet no matter how quickly she moved to grab the elongated handle, Al wasn’t getting any closer to grasping the wagon. The cart had strayed from her side long before she realized it was moving at all and had gained a good dozen yards, at least.   
“Stop that cart!” She called again, arms extending in front of her as she speed-walked through the half-crowded street.   
Said cart continued to roll along, jostling along the bumps and dips of the ground before entering an open space of a large intersection. Just as it approached the center, there was a loud clamber as if something heavy and metallic had been struck, and the cart stopped. Al continued her speedy trek to the cart to see that a man was lying flat on his back by one of the wheels, cladded heavily with block and gold armor. Behind him was a carriage aided by a number of cruel-looking men padded down with iron, their carriage chained and robed with the king’s banner proudly. In the front sat a dark-haired man who looked upon the fallen individual with a look that could vaguely be described as distaste.   
From a nearby caravan, just like the one before Al, came out a man who stood tall and strong like an ancient oak tree, striding forward with a clatter of his metal coverings and the ruffle of his heavy black cloak. His face was like that of a god’s; severe and hard, like it was chiseled out of stone. A gold crown sat atop his war helmet, spiked and polished like the tips of spears, a crown in which the young woman recognized to be the crown of her king: King Cragnoor the Heartless. He stood before the other man, looking down on him like a hunter over a fallen prey that was too small and too feeble for his liking.   
“Aah! Ah, father. I apologize for summoning you from your war chamber, but as you can see, we have had quite the calamity, and I have become wounded. Aah.” The younger man drew out, fumbling to grasp his shoulder as if it were in pain, his limbs spread out about him and dusted with dirt. He hissed and groaned as his small hand tried to massage the supposedly injured ligament.   
From where Al stood, she could still hear her corrupt ruler talk through his teeth to what had to be his son and the prince of the realm, Prince Chauncley.   
“Look, it's perfectly obvious that you faked this injury.” King Cragnoor grueled, his brow furrowed in a spiteful manner.   
“What?!” The prince cried out in shock as he rose up from his recessing position, hastily yet clumsily climbing to his feet. Al noticed he did all this without any further complaining of his so-called injury and concluded that he was, indeed, faking it. “No! Dad, I- How, even?! It's not my fault somebody pushed a cart at me!”   
Al felt her face pinch together at this for, funny enough, no one had pushed the cart at him. If anything, he jumped in front of it. Besides, it was an accident that she turned her back on the cart. Not at all aiming to barrel down the prince or anyone, for that matter.   
“Oh, somebody pushed it?” The king inquired with much less vigor.   
The prince faltered for a moment before saying, “Yes, that is what I am now saying, that somebody else did this.” He repeated, only seeming to register his words and feeling the weight of them now.   
“Then punish them.” King Cragnoor returned, a fire lighting in his eyes.   
“What?” The prince squeaked after a moment.   
“If somebody else is responsible, then punish them!” The king screamed, causing the prince’s small form to jump.   
Al couldn’t blame him. The king was not one to be crossed, apparently even by his own son. And the king was famously known for his cruelty and blood-lust, harsh to even those who treated him kindly. Al couldn’t even imagine what it was like to grow up with a murderous tyrant such as Cragnoor.   
“Or can you not even do that?” King Cragnoor implied, his voice grating against his vocal chords like a blade being sharpened against stone.   
“No, no, no, of course, I can.” The prince struggled to say, looking paler than he had before. “Um, Who… who-who is responsible for this?” He stammered weakly, looking around at the crowd that had gathered there, his legs visibly wobbling under the poundage of his surely incredibly heavy suit of armor.   
A cold, horrid realization struck Al like a lightning bolt: in any case, it was her fault that the cart had rolled into his path and therefore, although not accurately speaking, she had been the one to push it at him. That she was the one to be punished for her careless actions. Al didn’t know what to do. Obviously, she couldn’t admit that it was her fault. Not only was it wrong, but if she were to admit nonetheless, she would receive the punishment the king barkingly demanded of his son. And that could be anything from being beheaded in front of all Lower Murkford to a life spent in torture, taken place in the deepest, darkest confines of the castle dungeon.   
She looked around at the herd of townspeople who turned to one another in question, seeking for the one to blame for this. Maybe if she stayed quiet long enough, she could become invisible and sneak out of there without having an angry mob and king after her.   
“It was her!” A familiar voice cried out suddenly. “I saw her!”  
Al, stunned, swiveled on her heels to the person who spoke out, but was only met by a horde of civilians’ eyes trained on her.   
“Yeah! She’s a shitshoveller. That’s her cart!” Another voice called out, much more masculine than the first. Popping out of the mass of heads and shoulders hovered a single hand, pointing an accusing finger straight at her.   
Al’s own eyes bulged out of their sockets, her heart stopping for a millisecond, the air in her chest freezing like ice.   
“What?! No!” She screeched. “No. I-I didn’t… It-It was an accident. I swear!”   
“She admits it!” A woman cried, and others chimed after her in agreement.   
Oh, no! No no no no no no no no. This can’t be happening!   
“Arrest her!” The king ordered.   
Before Al could even make a run for it, two men draped in their ruler’s crest strided forward, grabbed her wrists and shoulders, and forcefully shoved her up.   
“It was an accident!” She screamed, struggling against her captors hold on her.   
“Executioner!” The king called over to a vile man from the edge of the crowd.   
Al knew of him all too well, but that didn’t stop her blood from running cold at the sight of him.   
“Take this woman to be beheaded!”   
The swarm around Al roared with this, pumping their fists in the air, their maws ajar and echoing with squalls. Al thought she’d faint right then and there. Maybe she should've, that way she could've just pretended that she had passed away in her sleep rather than go through with feeling her neck press against the wooden stand, her pores taking in the dried blood of those before her, blood encrusted splinters poking her throat like the barb’s of a rose bush. To never have to hear her people hearten and sneer as the crazy old lady jeer at her sunken form. Then listening with clamped eyes as the swishing motion of the axe hissed above her head...   
This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening!  
She pulled and tugged on her convictor’s grips, but it felt as if she were trying to pull on the mane’s of two stubborn, strong mules. Her feet dug into the ground below her, skidding and scratching against sand and pebbles.   
This was it! This was the end! Alexandra Shitshoveller was going to die! What was worse was that she was going to die without ever being able to do anything with her life. Without ever going out to see the world or discover new things, or study in the city and become something great. Or apologize to her dad and tell him how much she loved him and her brother. She would never be able to make amends; never see her small, loving family at the end of the day; never get to tell them good night and good morning. Her stomach lurched when she recognized that this was her last day she would spend with Ed, her own father, and the last thing they did was fight.   
“Stop!” A voice bellowed, silencing the crowd.   
Al whipped her head to the sound, her long braid whirling around her shoulder, and was met by the gaze of her tyrant, accompanied by his son at his side. The king stood two feet taller than his offspring, like an eagle compared to a duck.   
“My son, Prince Chauncley, wishes to take the traitor to the castle to be handled with.” He pronounced for all to hear. “He said, and I quote, ‘That I will deal with her personally.’” He drawled menacingly.   
As the crowd groaned in dismay at the notion that they would not be attending a beheading today, Al’s mind reeled.   
She wasn’t going to die? She wasn’t going to be shoved onto the stage and have her head severed from her body? She wasn’t going to have food or mud thrown at her by her own people as the executioner roared above her, encouraging them to yell louder and louder till her ears threatened to bleed? She wasn’t going to see her father and brother’s faces before her life ended, knowing that she would never be able to beg him for forgiveness for her bout? Instead, she was going to the castle “to be handled with.” Al didn’t know exactly what that meant, but she knew it wasn’t good. And yet, she found no relief in this whatsoever.   
The soldiers holding the young woman dragged her to the caravan driven by the dark-haired man. Al revolved her vision to and fro in confusion, her eyes meeting the prince’s. She half expected him to seem expressionless, to show little to no emotion, like his father, King Cragnoor. But no. He watched her with wide, pale eyes, a crease forming between his brows. He chewed on his bottom lip worriedly, his hands fidgeting. He was nervous.   
One of the burly men opened the latch door located at the back of the carriage and she was shoved into the hard, wooden planks of the floor, her cheek slamming into the bed of stomped-on hay that smelt of leather and sweat. She hastily sat up when the door banged shut, encasing her in a wheeled prison of chains and weapons for bars and walls. She crawled to the door and peered through slits of swords and chain-links to see the crowd throng about the war chamber.   
Out of the horde of townspeople, a commotion was taking place where a man struggled to break free of a few knights’ barricade and with closer inspection, Al realized it was her father. Her heart nearly leaped out of her chest when Ed fought against the armored men, screaming that he take her place. He pounded his withered hands against their blocked arms and screeched and cursed relentlessly. Her brother, Michael, tugged at him, crying for him to stop, but his father wouldn’t until the king roared for silence.   
Al wanted to scream and cry for him. Al wanted nothing more than to break free from this terrible cage and run to him and apologize for everything she had said, to sob on his shoulder like how she used to when she was younger and have him tell her that everything would be okay. That all of this was nothing more than a bad dream. Instead, she sat there, silent and alone, as the caravan began to move. She watched with bated breath as her brother wrapped his skinny arms around her father, tucking his head into his chest to hide his face. Ed remained where he stood, unblinking and motionless, his own arms embracing his son as he witnessed his only daughter ride to her doom.   
Before Al could turn away from the scene that tore her heart to shreds, something else caught her eye. Placed not too far from her family, three individuals observed the departing wagons. Two men, one gangling and dark-headed and the other short, stocky, and blonde, and a woman who wore a pink dress with her long gold hair framing her pointed face, and suddenly Al recognized that voice from before. The voices who called her out of the crowd when the royals had demanded who had been the one to push the cart at the prince. The voices who shoved her into the spotlight for something she hadn’t done--at least not intentionally. Al would’ve cursed at Ted Carpenter, Mary Baker, and Wesley Pervert if she had the voice for her disbelief and distraught was much greater than her hatred for the trio. 

\----------

Al waited in absolute angst. Sweat pricked her spine irritatingly, her palms hot but her fingers cold. Her heart racing, drowning her ears in thumping blood, her mind swimming. It was torture! Yet what was even worse than the torment of waiting for her fate was her confusion.   
She had expected to be thrown into the deepest, darkest depths of the dungeon, to be flung into a slimy, damp cell or fastened to a brutal-looking machine that would put her through unspeakable pain. She had expected to never see the light of day and waste away the rest of her life chained to the walls of some underground, cruel prison. But no. None of that had happened. Nothing of the like had even been bestowed upon her since her arrival at the castle.   
The bed beneath her was impossibly soft, lined with velvet and plush cotton. It felt as if she were floating on a sea of clouds. She would’ve relished in the luxury of such fine fabrics, when taking note in the rarity of ever feeling said fine garments, if her anxiety wasn’t drowning her to the brim of mania.   
Al had been escorted to what had to be a palace bedroom and left there to wait for what exactly, she wasn’t sure. Upon entering, she couldn’t help but question whether or not this was a dream. Certainly, there must've been some mistake. Maybe the soldiers had mistaken her for one of the king’s guests instead of the kingdom traitor who “pushed” a shitshoveller’s cart at the prince and had taken her to the wrong place. That had to be the case. Unless, of course, they only wanted her to have a feel of security before they thrusted her into the pits of Hell. To raise her hopes only to crush them under their boots.   
The door gave a creak, which caused Al to stand in anticipation, as it began to open. She was sure it was the same soldiers who brought her here who had also realized they had a bit of a mix-up, only to find that it was the prince and the dark-haired man from before who closed the door behind them.   
“Sorry about the wait.” Prince Chauncley said as he straightened his shirt. “Had to get out of that suit of armor.”   
Although she may have been terrified of the oncoming future and what it held--considering she was now being visited by the younger royal being--her curiosity won the battle over her words.   
“What is going on here?” She asked.   
The prince looked surprised at her remark, his eyebrows jumping to his scalp.   
Al had never been face-to-face with Prince Chauncley before, let alone in the same room with kin of the king. He was shorter than Al had expected, if not at least an inch shorter than her. His skin was pale compared to his watery blue eyes, his brown hair suddenly cropped to a smaller haircut. She could've sworn it was longer just a moment before.   
“Pardon?” He requested.   
“Why am I here? Why am I here in the castle when I should’ve been executed?” She enunciated, wildly motioning with her hands. Only then did she feel her nerves begin to electrify and her anger gave way to release what she had oh-so desperately been wanting to say. “And by the way, I didn’t push that cart at you! It was a freak accident! And no one, and I mean no one, should ever be punished for something they didn’t do!” She screamed out.   
The prince took a step back, stunned by her intensity. “I-I-I’m sorry, it’s just-”  
“It’s just what?!” Al barked out, resulting in the prince to shrink in on himself like a turtle hiding its head in its shell, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t give a rat’s ass about his feelings when she was nearly killed for the sake of saving his own skin.   
The dark-haired man, who had been quiet thus far, stepped around the prince and faced her head on, an air of tranquility and ingenuity to him as he began to speak.   
“Allow me to explain.” He retorted, clasping his hands in front of him.   
“Who are you?” Al demanded, still enraged.   
Yet the man remained calm, as if she wasn’t on the brink of a panic attack. One second she’s about to be beheaded and the next she’s seated in a bedroom in the castle of a king who isn’t called Heartless for no reason.   
“I am Lord Vexler.” He said and continued on with the previous discussion as if his name was enough for her to know. “You see, the prince realized that it was unfair of him to have you killed for something that didn’t happen.”   
“A little late for that, don’t ya think?” She couldn’t help commenting, planting her fists on her waist, glaring daggers at said prince from the corner of her eyes.   
“We understand that. So in an attempt to save you, him and I came up with a way where you will live without having your head sliced off of your body.”  
Talk about a colorful picture in your head.   
“And that is?” Al persisted in spite of the gory sentence stated by this stranger.   
“Now you see, King Cragnoor wishes to be reassured that you’ll be punished even though what happened to Prince Chauncley wasn’t your fault, nonetheless. And since we want you to come out of this alive, we are going to propose that instead of killing you, we will have you stay here in the castle with us.”   
“What?!” Al shrieked.   
“That’s exactly what I said.” Lord Vexler retorted, not at all stupefied by her reaction. “But if we can convince the king that by keeping you here we’ll be having you separated from your family and friends, you'll therefore more miserable than you would've been if you were put to death. And we’ll have you also slave your life away here as a maid or something, just for precaution. And if he agrees, then you won’t have to die.”   
“I came up with that!” The prince intercepted, but Al barely even glanced in his direction as this new information sunk.  
“That… is… the stupidest idea I have ever heard!” The woman cried out.   
“Think of it this way,” Prince Chauncley chimed in, stepping forward. “If we have you stay here and work for me, you won’t have to be beheaded for something that didn’t actually happen. Unless, of course, my father doesn’t think that’s good enough. Then he’ll have to kill you himself in front of everyone. Not to mention kill the rest of your family, too. And-”   
“Not helping!” Al interrupted the prince’s rambling.   
“Okay, okay.” Lord Vexler stepped in between the two, hands raised as if to ward them off from getting any closer. In retrospect, Al did feel the urge to lunge at the prince for his carelessness and, as of recently, his blundering.   
“Listen. Persuading the king that having you here is a better form of punishment than being publicly slaughtered is the only way for you to come out of this alive.” The lord explained further, pronouncing his words slowly as if trying to spell it out to an angry toddler. “It’s either that or returning to Lower Murkford without your head.”   
Al’s head was spinning like a top, pushing and pulling like the two ends of a rope in a game of Tug of War.   
Now see, Al was a logical person. Someone who weighed the data in her mind to comprehend it all and go about things in a rational manner. To see things for what they really were, especially when it came to peoples’ intentions. So it was no surprise to her when she asked, “Why are you doing this?”   
“Because…” The prince started, taking a moment of silence to think before saying, “Well, you see, I come from a long line of murderous tyrants and… there’s just all this pressure to-to-”  
“-to continue the family tradition.” Al finished for him, her vexation giving way to awareness.   
Prince Chauncley blinked in astonishment, finding that what she had spoken was exactly what he had meant to express. “Yes.”   
And then, it happened. Al understood. Al finally understood why she had been delivered to the castle instead of the town square (no thanks to the multiple given explanations). She understood why she wasn’t going to die, why she had been approached by both the prince and the lord. But more importantly, she understood why the prince was doing this. And she understood because she had been going through the exact same thing not just a few hours ago.   
From dinner last night to midday that day, Al’s father had been trying his damndest to conform his daughter to his ways; to make her become him. Yet she hadn’t wanted any part in his line of work. Not once in her life did she want to shovel shit till the day she died. Never even wanted to learn more about it than she already did. And here was Prince Chauncley, faced with the same problem she was dealing with, the torch now being passed down to him: carrying on the family tradition. And like her, he had decided to go against it. Risking the favor of his father (what little he had) to do something he believed was right. And he was doing this to fix his mistake.   
“Okay.” Said Al.   
“Okay what?” The prince repeated.   
“Okay. Let’s do it.”   
Al wasn’t sure if she should’ve felt comforted or distraught. The plan seemed almost unachievable, if not ridiculous. And yet it was her only hope of seeing the light of day tomorrow. Her life depended on the desperate, half-witted concoction of a prince and his lord. Strange how one minute you go from complaining about your job to your boss/father and the next you’re facing sudden death.   
“Alright.” Lord Vexler clapped his hands together to capture their attention once again. “Prince Chauncley and I will go to King Cragnoor while you wait here. Your presence might make the king feel the need to kill you further, so we’ll just have you stay here. We’re not sure how long this will take, but once we have his decision, we’ll come back. Sound good?”   
Al nodded her head, her gaze finding great interest in the cobblestone floor digging into the bottom of her shoes rather than the faces of either her saviors or her murderers, which had yet to be determined.   
The two strided to the door, their long robes rustling along with the motion of their legs. And just as they were about to close it behind them, the prince poked his head in the door’s crack and said, “This’ll work. I promise.” And they were gone. 

\----------

It had seemed like hours before the two returned to Al. Said young woman was caught pacing the room, fiddling with the end of her long black braid, muttering to herself incoherently. Keep in mind that the poor woman had been alone for some time now, her thoughts plagued by doubts. What they didn’t know, though, was that she had been at war with herself.   
When the uncertainties became too great within the first hour of the prince and lord’s departure, she made to escape the castle. Her fearful mind had been manipulated into believing that fleeing was better than facing her king’s resolution, whether it be him commanding her to perform the palace’s chores or shoving a sword into her gut. To start, she had tried to pry the door open--thinking that if she slunk through the halls of the castle unseen, she would be home-free--only to discover that it was locked tight. The window was out of the question. Not only did it refuse to budge, but the room she resided in was much too high for her to simply leap out of. Not to mention that she would surely be seen by some bypassing guards if she tried to climb down with a length of tied garments or rope. Then she would truly know that she had lived her last day.   
So when she concluded that there was no way she could break out, she knew that it would be her ruler’s choice that would either end her or save her. That she could do nothing more than sit and wait for either her doom or her salvation to come knocking its greeting.   
When Lord Vexler and Chauncley returned, Al rushed to them, eyes wide and expectant.   
“The king has agreed to our proposal.” Lord Vexler announced.   
“So I’m not going to be beheaded?” Al couldn’t help questioning, her hands bundling together as her anxiety built up to its peak.  
“No.” The lord answered with a small smile.   
Al gave a tremendous sigh, cupping her face in relief. Hoping that you won’t be killed wasn’t nearly as reposing as knowing for sure that you weren’t going to be killed.   
“Of course, he did enforce a few edicts that we must follow.” Lord Vexler implied.   
Al’s hands fell away and her lungs nearly stopped working, threatening to sever her brain’s flow of air.   
That didn’t sound good.   
“What edicts?” She questioned.   
“Well, first of all, he believed that becoming a mere maid wasn’t to his satisfaction. He suggested that you become the prince’s personal servant, instead.” Lord Vexler motioned to Prince Chauncley whose lips were pressed together in a tight, white line.   
“Excuse me.”   
“You will be attending to the prince’s wishes and commands. You will do what he tells you to do without question. You will escort him wherever he goes and if he asks for something, anything for that matter, you must produce it as quickly as possible.”   
Al was just about to declare how she didn’t see the difference in being a personal servant when compared to a slave when the prince spoke up.   
“Don’t worry!” Prince Chauncley said. “I won’t make you do anything you don’t really want to do. I promise.”   
Al wasn’t all that reassured. Serving the prince hand-and-foot didn’t sound like Thrillsville to her, but at least it was better than having to carry out household tasks like washing his clothes and cooking feasts.   
“We’ll go over the other regulations tomorrow.” Voiced Lord Vexler. “It’s been a long day and you’re going to need your rest for tomorrow. Come along, Prince Chauncley.”   
The prince went to follow the lord, trailing after him like a baby duck, only to turn back to the woman. His eyes were wide and hopeful, like the gaze of a young, vulnerable child, blind to the cruelty of the world. They weren’t the eyes of a prince. Those eyes didn’t belong in the head of a spawn of King Cragnoor the Heartless. They belonged to someone else. Someone Al didn’t know and was yet to meet.   
“I’m sorry… for everything.” He said.   
Al was shocked more by the actual genuineness in his tone rather than the words themselves in his statement. It was a simple phrase, just a jumble of apologetic words meshed together for the purpose of mending a relationship that didn’t even exist between the two individuals. As if to slap a simple bandage on a wound inflicted by a cannonball.   
Al didn’t say anything, though, as he shuffled back to Lord Vexler and accompanied him out of the room and out of her sight.   
Al, numb and drained, went back to the bed she had seated herself on multiple times that day from her previous, frantic worrying spree.   
The bed was just one piece of furniture in the spacious bed chamber. There was a desk layered with papers and ink bottles, just waiting to be inscribed on; a dresser, no doubt filled with silks and cotton manufactured draperies; a handful of trunks that held rich treasures yet to be located, and a large burgundy rug that encircled the legs of the bed frame, all of which was illuminated by the large fireplace’s fiery blaze. The masoned walls loomed above her as if she were locked inside a giant box of stone, as if she were a doll wrapped in a present topped with a ribbon. Yet as spacious as it was, the room felt hollow and empty, like it’s life had been carved out of its carcass.   
The only thing that inspirited Al that she was still alive and on Earth rather than some kind of nightmare realm was the tall window that displayed the outside world. From where she sat, she could see pinpricks of yellow light, like the candles atop a birthday cake, the dozens of torches lining the streets of Lower Murkford alight. As close as the town was from the castle, Al might as well have been shipped to the other side of the globe.   
Defeated, the young woman crawled onto the bed and burrowed under the heaps of sheets. Although bundled snugly, she had never felt so alienated and uncomfortable. Her bed back home was stuffed with fresh hay and sown with leftover twine and old fabrics. She wasn’t used to sleeping in such a soft setting, or being away from her family overnight.   
A single tear slipped from her eye at the thought. How distressed her father and brother must’ve been. Miles away from her in a lonesome cottage situated on the outskirts of the city, fabricating perturbed thoughts of what evil tasks were being conducted on her, Ed and Michael must’ve been worried sick. All alone with nothing but their recent memory of her arrest to lie with them as they curled in on themselves in bed, spending the remainder of the day fretting about what had become of their daughter and sister.   
No matter what, Al would return to her family. Through the pain, the tears, the sleepless nights, the knowledge that her life had been flipped upside down and she was now a slave for the man who ruined any chance she had of becoming more than a shitshoveller; she would get out of there and return to her father and brother. Even if it threatened her own safety, she would rather spend one minute with her family than a lifetime in the castle.  
Al didn’t get much sleep that night.


End file.
